


Who the Fuck Wants to Die Alone

by yet_intrepid



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro (Voltron)'s Missing Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 04:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13426443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: Shiro knows the guards lie. Knows a promise from them is nothing, can be fulfilled or denied on a whim. Knows that in any exchange, there's a huge risk he'll get nothing back.Sometimes that risk is worth it.





	Who the Fuck Wants to Die Alone

**Author's Note:**

> The rape in this fic is not graphic, but it is a major theme. Please read cautiously, and skip this one if it'll trigger you.
> 
> Title is from "Some Nights" by Fun.

Well, Shiro thinks, when he’s finally back in his cell, it’s not the worst thing he’s ever done.

He’s heard people say—people who, well, people who have—well. He’s heard them say that afterwards, they wanted to get out of their own skin. One of his cellmates told him about it, in Galra words slow enough he could mostly understand, right after Shiro first started competing in the arena. Told him: the arena isn’t the only kind of sport the Galra require of prisoners. Told him: it will happen, sooner or later. If he is popular, well-liked, it will be sooner.

Well, it’s happened now, and there’s no point thinking about it. At least he had some say in _how_ it happened. At least he’s been promised a reward.

Shiro swishes spit in his dry mouth, trying to wash away the stickiness and the sick-sweet taste at the back of his throat. He doesn’t want to rip his skin off, though. He isn’t sure, right at this moment, that he’s actually in it. It’s like he’s floating there in the darkness of his cell, watching himself think, watching himself sink to the floor in his corner and curl up. Watching the words drift in and out of his brain as he grasps at them. It’s useless. It’s all useless, all except this: Epax’s promise to take him in the morning to record and send a message to Matt.

And yeah, maybe that’s useless too. Shiro knows that the guards lie. That they’re encouraged to, even, if it will help keep prisoners in line. Shiro’s had as many dashed hopes as he’s had fists smashed into his body, probably.

But hope’s a stubborn motherfucker, and Shiro is too.

So he’s almost proud, as he tucks his head into his arms and determinedly slow-breathes his way towards sleep. Almost proud of—of his own dumb tenacity, of the message he’s composing in his head. He’s got fifteen seconds of audio. That’s what Epax said.

Shiro closes his eyes and keeps breathing, picturing the air easing its way through the sore muscles of his jaw. And he thinks Matt’s name, over and over, like a spell or a prayer.

In the morning, before the food cart, Epax is at the door. Shiro and his cellmate scramble up, hands on their heads, but Epax looks only at Shiro. Leers at him, really, and Shiro swallows back bile at the taste he can’t seem to rinse from his mouth. He can’t afford to lose water by throwing up, but more importantly, he can’t afford to piss Epax off.

“Champion,” says Epax, making some sort of face that Shiro decides to interpret as the Galra equivalent of eyebrow-waggling. “Hands over here.”

Shiro turns his back to the open door, presenting his hands to be cuffed behind him. Epax bumps his crotch up against Shiro’s ass and laughs when Shiro shudders. Locks the cuffs tighter than normal, too, and then snatches at Shiro’s waist to lead him down the corridor. Shiro doesn’t struggle. He may be stubborn, but he knows better than to risk anything that would jeopardize his chance at a message to Matt.

He wants to contact Commander Holt, too, but two messages was too much to ask for. The likelihood of Matt and his dad finding each other again in the hundreds and thousands of work camps the Galra run is undeniably slim, but—well. Shiro feels more obligation to reach out to Matt, for one thing, because of the attack thing, but also he’s heard estimates of workers’ lifespans in the camps. Commander Holt is older, frailer. The chance that he’s still alive is slim, too.

So it’s Matt that Shiro dwells on as he marches down the hallways and into the elevator; it’s Matt’s scared face Shiro calls to mind as Epax guides him into a small room with some kind of tech set-up.

It’s Matt’s name he says when the recording light blinks green.

_Hey Matt. I’m still alive. I miss you. I hope you’re doing okay—_

Everything he’s thought of to say feels inane, useless, not good enough. He says it anyway.

_—that you’re doing okay and that you’ve found your dad. I hope your leg healed up okay, too. Matt, I’m…I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

As he hesitates, grasping for the words that have fled him, the recording light blinks red and then shuts off. Epax pulls up a screen and attaches the audio file to a message.

“Turn around,” he orders Shiro, and Shiro obediently doesn’t watch while Epax starts to type some kind of message.

“What’s the prisoner ID?” Epax asks.

“117-9873,” Shiro reels off, carefully, then repeats it. “That’s 117-9873.”

“Heard you the first time,” snaps Epax, and then there’s a little more typing. Shiro sneaks a glance over his shoulder, but Epax is only using a small part of the screen and Shiro can’t read the message from across the room, especially not with his limited knowledge of the Galra script. For all he knows, it could be instructions to ignore the message, delete the file.

There is a part of Shiro that doesn’t care. There is a part of him that feels triumphant anyway, whether the message reaches Matt or whether it ends up sitting unread in some crowded inbox. Shiro doesn’t like that part of himself.

But he doesn’t poke at it, doesn’t let himself think. Instead, he squares his shoulders and endures Epax’s hands as they march back through the corridors and down seventeen levels in the elevator. The other guards, curious, turn towards them as they pass. Epax pinches Shiro’s ass and Shiro wonders: what the hell has he gotten himself into?

When they get back to Shiro’s cell, the food cart has already come and left. Shiro tells himself he doesn’t care about that, either. The message is what matters. The Holts are what matters.

But that night, in the dark again, it hits him.

Shiro vomits before he can make it to the bucket. Afterwards, shaking, he does his best to clean up the mess with his hands.

\----

“Hey, Champion.”

Shiro straightens up, looks around. He’s taken to stretching in the gladiator training room when he doesn’t have a fight or a work shift—it’s better than his cell, where he can barely do a split across the diagonal, and he’s found out over the past few days that he can bribe Epax for small things, too. It’s a game of wills and guessing, of offers and counteroffers, and Shiro likes it, somehow. He likes—

“Champion!” The voice roughens and Shiro snaps to his feet, to attention. There’s an officer entering the room.

Not a general or anything like that; Shiro’s pretty sure he’d have already been picked up and hurled against the wall if Sendak or Haggar came down here and they had to call for him twice. But it’s still an officer—Epax’s superior, if Shiro remembers correctly.

 He stands there, straight-backed with his eyes down and his hands on his head, as the officer approaches.

“No fight today?” The tone is casual, almost friendly. Shiro doesn’t trust it.

“No sir,” he answers.

“Oh, at ease, Champion,” the officer says, and Shiro moves his hands down to his sides but he doesn’t look up. He’s gotten too many backhands for meeting the Galra’s eyes, and he isn’t sure it’d be worth it right now.

“I’m Sergeant Sutok,” the officer goes on. “Let me say, Champion, that I’ve been watching your arena fights with great interest.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Shiro, uneasy.

“And, of course, you’ve recently struck some deals outside the arena,” Sutok muses, and Shiro half-chokes. Sutok peers at him; Shiro keeps his eyes down. “Or perhaps Epax is a liar?”

“No sir,” Shiro gets out. “No sir, he and I have…we’ve…”

“Oh, Champion.” Sutok’s casual tone takes on an edge of pity, or maybe even mockery. Shiro can’t be sure; his Galra language skills are barely good enough to hold up the conversation, and inflections are something he’s just beginning to understand. “It’s a common thing, you know, for our fighters. Hardly anything to be ashamed of. Although I must say, you could have chosen better than Epax.”

Shiro shifts his weight, bites his lip. “I did not know I could refuse, sir.”

“You’re the Champion now,” says Sutok. “Just beginning in the role, of course, but I predict a rapid rise to fame. And that fame—well. It gets you things.”

And then Shiro dares to look up. Hope’s stubborn, and so is he, and if there is another way to deal, another way to comfort Matt or to make his own life a little more bearable, if there is a way to escape Epax’s rough and greedy hands without losing the benefits—

“You want something,” Shiro says. “Sir.”

Sutok chuckles. “See, you’re smart. That’s why you make for a good fighter. Sure, you’re skilled, but you’re _clever_. Much more fun than that brutish Myzax.” He steps a little closer to Shiro, into his space, and takes his chin. Shiro stiffens, but doesn’t pull away.

“I want you to win me my bets, Champion.” Sutok’s claws almost caress Shiro’s sore jaw. “A small thing for so clever a fighter as you.”

Shiro waits. Listens.

“Your next fight is tomorrow, isn’t it?” Sutok says. His casual tone doesn’t fade. “I stand to win quite a lot of money if you seal the match with a crippling blow to the legs.”

Shiro swallows. Sutok runs a finger along his jawline one more time, then lets Shiro free.

“In return, of course,” Sutok goes on, “I’d be happy to hear a request or two.”

And the hope that bursts into Shiro’s heart shuts the rest of it all away: the exhaustion, the fear, the hatred. Sutok’s condescension, the bruises Epax left on Shiro’s hips. The fact that he’ll have to cripple another being.

The fact that it could all be a lie.

Because Shiro _likes_ this. He likes feeling like he’s got a little bit of power, something to bargain with, something he could withhold.

“Two requests,” he says. He smiles, but his voice is sharp.

Sutok nods. “Let’s hear it.”

“One, I send messages to the two humans who were captured with me. Thirty seconds, video.” Shiro lets the hope surge up, make him bold and unstuttering. “Two, you get me a first aid kit. Mine. Permanently.”

Sutok stares at him, and Shiro stares back.

“First aid kit, and you can pick one of the humans,” Sutok says. “That’s my offer.”

“Done,” says Shiro. He could probably bargain further, but he’s scared to lose what he’s already getting. “I’ll win you your bets, sir.”

“Vrepit sa,” says Sutok, and he claps Shiro on the shoulder and leaves.

When the door is shut and Shiro is alone in the training room, he throws his arms in the air and whoops unabashedly. God, fuck, he can _do_ this. He can make it; he can work his way up; he can take care of Matt and Commander Holt—

But the excitement fades fast,  leaves Shiro cold and tired. He sits down and curls his body against the wall, shaking. Gives himself sixty measured seconds to crash, to panic, to dread the fight, to worry about failure.

Then he gets up and starts to train.

\----

Hope is stubborn, and Shiro is too, but he’s not sure he’s stubborn enough for this.

Seal the fight with a crippling blow to the legs, Sutok said, but he hadn’t mentioned that Shiro’s opponent would be wearing _armor_. And good armor, too—Shiro’s landed a couple decisive hits with his sword and they’ve barely dented the metal.

He’s a better fighter than the scaly lizard person opposite him, sure, he thinks as he dodges a blow with relative ease. They’re big, maybe eight feet, but they’re clumsy. And Shiro’s fought bigger.

What he hasn’t done is fight someone this well-equipped.

They lunge at him with their claws, over-reach. Their chest isn’t guarded, but Shiro holds back. There’s no point hammering away at that breastplate, especially when it won’t even help him fulfill his promise to Sutok.

No, what he’s got to do is go for the joints. He can see gaps there, where the armor has to bend, but to reach down at his opponent’s ankles or knees, he’ll have to leave his own chest exposed. And without armor, that could kill him.

So he keeps on the defense, thinks, bides his time. The crowd likes a long fight, anyway, he reasons—but they also like blood, and Shiro’s enough more skilled than the lizard that blood isn’t really forthcoming. He can do this forever, really—block, dodge, dance away. Tire his opponent out. He relies on it in the really hard fights, and this one doesn’t seem too bad. Sure, still terrifying at some level, but not as hair-raising as plenty of things Shiro’s already survived.

Is he getting too casual about this? Shiro wonders as he dodges behind some kind of rock formation. The lizard person lets out a high-pitched squeal of rage and for a moment Shiro’s half-deaf, stunned. In that moment, the lizard person’s back around the rocks and bearing down on him again.

They grapple. Claws dig into Shiro’s wrists and he can’t tear away, can’t get free without slicing all those tendons to hell. He drops his sword, kicks out, yells—

Yep, he was definitely getting too casual.

So he freezes. Thinks.

Moves.

He sacrifices the left wrist, wrenches around enough that he can get his fingers under those claws and _pry_. And fuck, it hurts, but the claws snap right off and Shiro’s half-free and the lizard person is screeching again as Shiro swirls his bleeding left hand to the alien’s other arm and leverages himself on it like a pull-up. His feet swing up and he kicks them, hard, right in the throat.

The lizard screeches higher yet and tumbles to the ground, taking Shiro with them. They roll together, still grappling, but Shiro gets his left wrist free and scrambles away.

By the time he’s grabbed his sword, his opponent is back on his feet too, and then it’s back to defense. The crowd’s happier now, yelling wildly as Shiro’s movements fling blood from his wrist across the sand. He can hear them: _Champion, Champion, Champion!_

The lizard’s dripping blood, too, from where Shiro snapped their claws. Back on even ground, Shiro thinks fiercely, as the adrenaline pumps fast and clear through his brain. Or at least, even enough.

This time, his opponent closes in faster. They’ve learned Shiro’s strategy and they’re tired of it, screeching wild displeasure. This time, they grab for his throat.

Shiro ducks and then he sees it, his chance, and he moves his sword in with his body and thrusts, right at the joint in the armor’s knee-cap. The lizard chokes on their screech.

They go down, clutching for Shiro to try and grapple him one more time, but it’s easy enough to dodge. Easy enough, really, to think of Matt and to twist the sword, to grind it against bone until something pops.

Shiro pulls the blade out. The lizard is curled on the ground, their eyes closed. Shiro’s pretty sure they’ve passed out from the pain.

He flings the sword away, even as the crowd yells for a kill. He hasn’t sunk that far, he tells himself. Not yet.

When the guards come in to cuff him, to drag his opponent away, Shiro shoves away his guilt and allows himself, instead, satisfaction. He’s won. Not just the match, but his reward. A medical kit. A message.

He tells himself if it helps Matt, everything’s worth it. He tells himself it was the right choice, that he would’ve had to fight anyway, that at least his opponent’s not dead.

It’s not enough to soothe his conscience, really.

Sutok visits him in his cell. He’s got the medical kit, which he opens to show that it’s stocked. Shiro can’t read the labels on anything, but he takes it all greedily anyway. Sutok claps him on the shoulder again and goes, promising a message in the morning.

Shiro treats his wrist and plans what he will say.

\----

_Hi Matt. I guess you’re wondering how I’m sending you these. So a few of the Galra officers—they bet on the arena fights. If I win them their bets, well. This is what I asked for in return. I got a medical kit, too, so don’t yell at me for being impractical._

_I miss you. I already said that last time, I know. I get sappy when I’m by myself too long. Wish you were here to make fun of me for it. But also I don’t wish you were here, because hopefully you’re somewhere better. At least a little better, anyway._

The light blinks red.

Sutok, unlike Epax, doesn’t make Shiro turn around. He still can’t read the message that’s being sent, but he can make out Matt’s prisoner ID in the subject and the file attached at the bottom. God, being illiterate sucks.

Shiro takes in a deep breath and scrubs his right hand over his face. The claw marks on his left wrist and hand are still raw and painful, but they aren’t infected; the antiseptic in the kit has seen to that. Shiro’s had one or two infections, and they always got him sent to the druids. Avoiding that is top priority, second to the messages. Maybe above the messages.

“There you go,” Sutok says, smiling, as the screen for a sending messages pops up. “One thirty-second video recording. And a damn fine fight, I must say. Although I was hoping for a little more excitement before the finale. Your opponent was really no match for you.”

“Thank you, sir,” says Shiro.

“But I’m curious,” Sutok goes on. He circles the table of recording equipment to cram into Shiro’s space again. “Why no killing blow?”

Chills run through Shiro. He’s gotten away with that so far, though he’s taken a few beatings for it after matches where a kill was clearly expected. “It wasn’t billed as a fight to the death, sir,” he answers carefully.

Sutok shrugs. “No one would protest.”

“I would,” says Shiro.

Sutok grabs him by the arm, digs his claws in just a little. “You forget your place,” he growls. “The opponent you crippled will never fight again, not unless the druids take pity on him. You think you can doom good fighters to a life in the mines without a second thought?”

Shiro’s breathing stutters, but he steadies himself. “It’d be a better life than here. And certainly better than none.”

Sutok’s claws clench deeper and his other hand comes up: fisted, threatening. “You’ve been favored, Champion. By Epax, by myself. By the druids, even. Don’t throw that away for a few smartass remarks, understand?”

Shiro hesitates.

Sutok punches him in the mouth and Shiro reels, spits blood, almost collapses. Sutok’s claws in his arm keep him upright.

“Understand?” Sutok repeats, vicious this time.

“Yes sir,” Shiro answers, low.

“And I’m taking back the first aid kit,” Sutok says.

Shiro’s eyes fly wide. “Sir—”

But Sutok’s fist threatens again, and Shiro closes his mouth, swallows back the blood from his bitten tongue. If he loses Sutok’s favor, he reminds himself, he’ll have only Epax. And Shiro would rather keep that bargaining chip as a last resort.

“Unless,” Sutok says, “you make it up to me.”

His tone is less vicious now. Shiro sneaks a glance at him and finds that yes, he’s leering.

Shiro weighs his options. The scratches hurt, yes, but he’s recovered from worse without help, and he’s still got all his teeth. He could say no.

But if Sutok starts to hate him, Shiro thinks. If instead of neutral or positive, an officer is actively bitter, set against him—

“What do you want?” Shiro says. It’s a question, but it’s a tired acquiescence, too.

Sutok pushes him to his knees, then reaches to squeeze open his jaw. Shiro swallows blood again, and fear with it.

He can do this, he tells himself. He can do this.

\----

Sutok still takes the first aid kit away. Shiro retches up everything he swallowed—into the bucket, this time—and peels the bandage from his wrist to wrap it clumsily around the fresh cuts on his upper arm. His cellmate, just back from a night work shift, growls at him to shut up. Shiro growls back, because he’s tired and his cellmate is never nice to him and he can’t do anything about his anger at the Galra, not without getting hit or worse, and so he’s got to let it out somehow.

He feels bad anyway, though, as he settles down to wait for the food cart.

It comes before long. When the door slides up, his cellmate stirs, groans, and clambers to their feet; Shiro follows suit, his hands on his head.

“What’re you getting?” the Galra who pushes the cart demands of Shiro’s cellmate, who asks for a half-ration of bread and a water packet. The Galra checks their ID, inputs the cost, and hands over the food and water.

Shiro’s next.

“Can I check my credits balance?” he asks—politely, his eyes still down.

The Galra with the cart huffs, but taps away at their pad. “ID?”

“117-9875.” Shiro chews at his lip, waiting. Payment for winning his fight should’ve come through by now; he wants to see how much he won.

“Seven credits,” the Galra reports back.

Shiro’s mouth drops open. “Seven—”

“Yep. Now, you getting anything?”

“That’s not _right_ ,” Shiro protests. Even if his prize for winning isn’t in his account yet, he had at least thirty or so credits yesterday. “I just won in the arena; it should be—”

“It’s seven credits,” the Galra interrupts. Sighing in exasperation, they spin the pad towards Shiro. “Balance was six hundred eighty-nine credits before you got fined six hundred and eighty-two for damages to equipment.”

“That’s not right,” Shiro repeats. “I didn’t—”

“You want to claim innocence, you’ll have to go further up the chain than me.” The Galra shakes his head. “Last chance at food.”

Shiro growls under his breath. “Quarter-ration of porridge. That’s two credits, right?”

“Four.”

“Four?” Shiro starts, but then he swallows back his anger. It won’t take much more lip to get him hauled out of the cell and beaten. “Never mind. Just a water ration.”

The Galra hands him the water packet through the electric bars and taps at the pad to deduct two credits from Shiro’s account. “You done making a stink? Or do I need to write you up?”

“No sir,” Shiro grits out. “I’m done, sir.”

The door slams back down, leaving Shiro and his cellmate in dimness.

Shiro growls again, to himself this time, and goes back to his corner. His stomach is starting to complain noisily, angry at the fact that last night his fight made him miss the cart, expecting some kind of sustenance soon. Shiro sips slowly at his water packet and fumes. Six hundred and eight-two credits for equipment damage? What equipment damage? He hasn’t touched the recording stuff; what else could it be?

It isn’t fair. He won that fight; he should at least get a few days of eating better off it. And instead, he’s got five credits left until he gets a work shift or another fight.

There’s no way to know when that will be. Well, he’ll probably have one or the other in the next day or two, but the work shifts don’t pay much, even if he manages to get through them without a screw-up and a pay cut. He’s done entire twelve-hour shifts and ended up with nothing to show for it, more than once.

Six hundred and eighty-two credits. Shiro’s not sure if he wants to laugh, cry, or break something. Maybe all three.

When he’s sucked the water packet dry, he considers trying to sleep again. If he’s going to spend a few days hungry, he might as well conserve his strength.

Shiro sighs in frustration as he curls up with his back to the wall. It’s a myth, probably, but some guards and some gladiators say if you save up enough, you can buy yourself out of prison. As the Champion, he’d thought he had some chance at that. Some chance at freedom, if not home.

He digs his fingernails into his palms and tries to sleep.

When the door finally opens again, it’s not a work supervisor. It’s not the sentries taking him to the arena, either. Instead, it’s Epax, clanging against the metal wall and grinning.

“Champion,” he snaps, and beckons. Shiro steps to the door and turns to submit to the cuffs, then follows Epax down the corridor.

Some ten minutes’ walk later, he finds himself guided into an empty room. Shiro’s breath quickens. He’s never been alone with Epax before—their previous exchanges took place in the soldiers’ lounge, with other Galra commenting lewdly as Shiro flushed in shame and swallowed down thick purple semen.  He’d expected more of the same today.

“Name your price,” Epax says, as he undoes the cuffs so he can slam Shiro into a wall and start to peel his jumpsuit off.

“No,” Shiro says. Fear takes hold in his gut and he pushes away—impulsively, foolishly. “No, please.”

Epax breathes on his neck, claws at his hips. “You can get a reward for this,” he threatens, “or you can get a beating. Understand?”

Shiro stills.

“Understand?” Epax shouts.

“Yes sir,” says Shiro.

“Good.” Epax finishes with the jumpsuit, pooling it around Shiro’s feet. “Now tell me what you want.”

Shiro thinks about Matt. Thinks about hearing back, about not being so desperately lonely all the time. About having something to hope for, look forward to. He thinks about his near-empty account, about how much harder the arena is when he’s gone hungry. He thinks about freedom and injustice and the stars he used to love.

He thinks about how much he would have laughed, a year ago, if someone tried to tell him he’d be abducted by aliens.

What he wants—

Shiro spins around, naked as he is, and _fights_.

The room’s small, barely bigger than a utilities closet, and it’s mostly dark. Epax dodges Shiro’s first punch, retaliates. Shiro barely evades his claws.

He gets a few good hits in, but it doesn’t last. Epax has a baton at his belt and it’s not long before he pulls it out, wields it with cruel dexterity. Shiro has nowhere to run, nothing to hide behind, none of the things he usually plies to his advantage in the arena.

But he tries. Oh, he tries, even when the baton catches him across old wounds, even when he’s clawed and gasping and tired, so tired, of hurting and struggling. Of living. He tries and he fails and he gets pinned anyway, gasping, his mouth full of fur from biting at Epax’s restraining arms.

He tries and, in the end, all he gets for his efforts is more pain.

\----

That night, he scrapes his jagged fingernails over his skin, pressing into every bruise and scrape Epax left. The more his body lights up with the pain, the more he can forget the way his brain spirals in self-loathing and regret.

He should’ve—

He shouldn’t—

He should—

Shiro doesn’t cry. He can’t. He wishes he could, even though his cellmate would curse him, maybe hit him if he didn’t shut up. He wishes someone would hit him.

He wishes he could stop feeling like he deserves to be hit.

But he can’t; he doesn’t know how. So he just digs angry fingers into his injuries and tries to wait it out, this urge to strip his skin away, until sleep comes. But even sleep, when Shiro gets it, is uneasy and slow, full of unwanted hands.

It stays that way.

Shiro keeps dreaming, but he also keeps winning his fights. He keeps winning Sutok’s bets, too. He never learns what the equipment damage charge was, but eventually decides it must be related to the lizard’s armor, because there’s nothing else he’s so much as touched. It doesn’t happen again.

Other things happen again. Shiro learns not to fight them. He learns to breathe through it, to act eager when he can, to fight the urge to scrape his skin away. He learns to keep himself from throwing up, after. Even with his credits balance growing, he can’t afford to lose any of the precious nutrients and hydration in his stomach.

Sutok lets him send messages to Matt, sometimes, when he’s pleased. For whatever reason, communicating with Commander Holt seems to be off limits. Shiro doesn’t push back too hard, though. It’s not worth it, because things are—they’re getting better. Epax is harder to bribe since the day Shiro fought back, but Shiro can still get little things out of him. Trips to the training room, sometimes a meal or a shower.

Things are getting better, and Shiro doesn’t trust it.

Then, not long before a scheduled fight, Sutok comes for him. Shiro goes with him, questioning silently. They’ve already made their agreement, and Sutok doesn’t usually bother coming by just for sex. Especially not with three sentries accompanying him.

They go up the elevator. Shiro’s blood pumps faster like he’s getting ready to run, but he isn’t. He can’t. He can’t do it, not now, not with no plan, not with everything going okay—

He wants to.

Because behind the door Sutok opens is Commander Sendak, waiting for Shiro.

Shiro, breathless with fear, goes to his knees without needing much of a push. His hands shake in the cuffs and he focuses on trying to still them so he won’t have to think about why he’s here. About whether he’s going to die.

“Champion,” Sendak rumbles.

“Sir,” Shiro says. His voice comes out small.

“I’ve seen you in the arena.”                                                                                                           

“Yes sir,” says Shiro. He shifts a little, uneasy, on his knees.

“You refuse to kill.” Sendak pauses. “Why is that?”

“Sir,” Shiro protests, quietly, “I have killed in the death matches.”

“Not always,” Sendak says, “and never outside of them. Why, Champion?”

“It—it isn’t the human way,” Shiro says.

“I’ve also heard you’ve made some deals.” Sendak peers at him. “So you can learn better, Champion. You are already learning the Galra way.”

“Yes sir,” says Shiro, though it makes his gut clench.

Is he really becoming like his captors? He thinks of the joy of holding himself back until he gets a reward, of the rush that fills him with the power of getting what he wants. Maybe he is.

Shiro closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, Sendak is smiling cruelly. “There is another prisoner,” he says. “Sutok, what’s the number?”

“117-9873,” Sutok reels off dutifully. Shiro’s throat goes tight.

“Matt,” he mutters, even though he knows they won’t correct to the name. “Matt Holt.”

“117-9873,” Sendak says, as if Shiro never spoke. “You send him messages.”

“Yes sir,” Shiro says. There’s no point in lying; Sutok would certainly betray that information if he hasn’t already.

Sendak’s smile doesn’t fade. “You will be pleased to hear,” he says, “that he has managed to send you one in return.”

The world stops.

Hope’s a stubborn motherfucker, and Shiro is too, and oh God, he’d do anything to hear from Matt. He’d do anything. Just for that one message, for a few words he could memorize and treasure. He’d fight Zarkon himself, if he had to—

“What do you want,” he says, and he can barely hear himself through the ringing of his ears. “Sir, what do I need to do—”

“It is simple,” Sendak says. “Kill.”

“Okay,” Shiro says. He can’t help it; his mouth is producing words on its own. It could be a trap, says his mind; they might not even have a message. They might have it and still refuse it to you. They might do anything.

He can’t help it.

“I’ll do it,” says Shiro’s mouth. Says his heart, too, the selfish fool. “Anything,” he says. “Anything.”

“Excellent,” says Sendak, and he smiles.


End file.
